On the Head of a Wavering Pin
by Fictionista654
Summary: Castiel knows that he's a monster. An angel from a fallen family, he lives off the life energy of humans. Dean is a hunter's son, trying to prove his worth. When Dean enrolls in the same school where an English teacher was found dead, he's desperate to solve the mystery and prove to his dad that he's a real hunter. Updates every Sunday!
1. Chapter 1

The boy, Timothy, has a small button nose and the widest eyes Castiel has ever seen. He's around the same age as Castiel, fourteen, and they share an algebra class. They're walking through the forest, where the sunlight pools on the fallen leaves and the smell of fresh plants lingers the air.

It really is a beautiful day for murder.

"Is this where you saw the turtle?" asks Timmy, kneeling by an oak tree tagged with a slash of yellow. "This tree?"

Castiel remains standing and looks down at the boy. Timmy looks younger than he is, in his bright red hoodie and brown courderoys. When Castiel doesn't join Timmy on the ground, Timmy looks back around. "Is this it?"

"Yes," Castiel manages. "This is where I saw the frogs."

"The frogs?" asks Timmy. "I thought they were turtles?"

"It doesn't matter," says Castiel, and then he grips both of Timmy's shoulders. He's a bully, Castiel reminds himself. He beat up Kevin. He's not nice.

"Hey, what're you doing—hey!" Timmy struggles, but Castiel has, quite literally, superhuman strength. "That hurts! Stop it!"

Castiel can feel every molecule inside this boy, each of them vibrating at such a beautiful frequency. For a moment, all that exists is this delectible boy and all his delicious molecules and, of course, his soul, bright as the sun at noon. Castiel begins to suck the boy in, and he buzzes and tingles. Timmy screams, a horrible, terrifying sound, and then there is a burst of light and Timmy is entirely consumed. Then, carefully, Castiel spits out the soul. The soul is the best part, and without it, Castiel never feels fully satisfied. Naomi always eats the soul, and when Castiel and Naomi feed together, she makes Castiel take the soul as well.

But Naomi is not here with him, and Timmy does not deserve oblivion. Castiel tracks the soul with his eyes as it darts through the trees. When it disappears, Castiel drops to the forest floor. He wishes he could have seen the soul ascend because now there's the possibility it'll stick around as a vengeful spirit. It's never happened before, and Castiel suspects there are reapers looking out for him, doing their best to shuffle the spirits onward. Angels look out for their own, after all.

Castiel's timer beeps, and he glances at his watch. 3:00. School's been out for half an hour. Half an hour ago, Timmy was still alive. "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow," mutters Castiel as he brushes the dirt off the seat off his khakis. It's hot for November, and he takes off his trench coat and slings it over his shoulder as he begins walking home.

They've lived in Newdale for three months now, since the beginning of the school year. It's a well-sized county on the east coast, about two hours away fom the sea. Picking places to stay is almost an art—they can't be too large because then you run the risk of running into other predators. They can't be too small because after a couple of disappearances, the entire place is on high alert. So Newdale is perfect.

Timmy is Castiel's first feed here, actually. He waits as long as he can to eat, and has managed to cut down to about six people every year. In the meantime he feeds on animals like deer or stray cats. But there's something about humans that can't be replaced.

He emerges from the woods on Pine Street, right by his house. The lawn is freshly mowed, and Castiel breathes in the heady scent of cut grass before walking up the front pathway and unlocking the front door.

It smells like cleaning products inside, cleaning products and wood. Naomi's in the kitchen typing away at her laptop. She has a successful business as an occult author, and rakes in enough money for their moves. Well, she pads it with credit card fraud and embezzlement, but it works. When Castiel walks in, her nostril's quiver.

"You've fed," she says, shutting her computer. "Good."

Castiel goes to the fridge and pulls it open. There isn't much human food in there, but after spending almost six years eating the stuff, Castiel has a taste for it.

Especially peanut butter, which they have in bulk. He selects a new jar and a spoon and settles down at the table.

"I wish you wouldn't eat that crap, Castiel," says Naomi. "It's not good for you."

"It tastes good," he says around a mouthful.

Naomi wrinkles her nose. "Don't talk with your mouth full, please. It's not civilized. Are we humans or are we angels?"

We're not angels, thinks Castiel. We're abominations. We're God's greatest screw-up. He gets up from the table and carries the peanut butter up the stairs into his room. It's sparse for a teenager's bedroom: there's a bed with blue sheets the color of his eyes, a white Ikea desk and dresser set, and a bookshelf packed with books

"Hello," says Castiel, to no one. "I'm home."

He puts the peanut butter on the desk and collapses onto his desk chair.

He sticks another spoonful of peanut butter in his mouth and tries to forget how wonderful Timmy tasted. When he's sucked the last of the peanut butter butter from the spoon, he drops it back in the jar and thumps his head onto his desk.

"I'm ready for my dusty death," he mutters.


	2. Chapter 2

At school the next day, there are already missing child posters of Timmy. Alexandra, Timmy's older sister, is pinning them up. "I just need him to come home," she tells her friend. "Like, I would do anything. Actually anything."

Castiel averts his eyes and hurries to the sophomore locker bay. All the lockers are the same dull blue, but almost everyone has personlized the insides of their lockers. The boy to the right of Castiel has a miniature basketball hoop on the inside of the door, and the girl to the left has a collage of pictures covering every spare inch of her locker.

Castiel prefers to keep his locker neat. He has one of those hanging ladders, in a shade of blue similar to the locker's, and his books are neatly lined up and down it. There's nothing to suggest anything about its owner's personality. That's the way Castiel likes it. At the end of the school year, he and Naomi will be moving on. He doesn't need to leave detritus behind him.

"Hey, James," says a bright voice, and it takes Castiel a moment to react. To cover their tracks, Naomi switches their names around, but sometimes it's hard for Castiel to remember what his _nom du jour_ is. The bright voice turns out to be Charlie, the red-headed girl in his English class, and his only friend at school. "Did you do the _Separate Peace_ essay yet? I wanted to write about homoerotic subtext but Mrs. Penola said that I had to do the required prompt. She said our next essay we can pick our own thesis. It sucks, though."

"Homoerotic subtext?" asks Castiel.

"Um, duh," says Charlie. "Have you _read_ that book?"

"Yes," he lies. He'd gotten halfway through, but the guilt packed into the book reminded him too much of his actual guilt.

"So I'm writing about the wartime mentality and stuff," she chirps. "The wartime mentality is so cool, though! I mean, not cool. War's scary. But actually, have you ever played video games?"

Castiel realizes that he's been followng Charlie down the hall, almost all the way to their English class. Her vitality has that effect on him, makes him forget lose track of his surroundings. She'd be a very good meal, but Castiel isn't going to eat her. Timmy was a bully. He didn't deserve to die, but he wasn't the nicest person, either. Charlie _is_ the nicest person. The nicest person Castiel knows, anyway.

"Hey," she prods. "James? Video games? Do you game?"

Castiel cocks his head. "Do you mean _game_ as in video games, or game in the general sense? In the general sense I suppose I do play games. I enjoy Monopoly. But if you are referring to video games, no, I do not 'game.'"

Charlie throws back her head and laughs. "James, we've talked about the air quotes before!" She pushes open the classroom door and lets him go through first. They take their usual seats in the back.

"Was this not an appropriate moment for air quotes?" asks Castiel. Sometimes he worries his inability to perfectly mimic and understand human behavior means he'll never be able to live a human life, a life without killing humans for food. He had thought that he understood air quotes, but apparently not.

"It's fine," says Charlie. "You almost got it. And I was talking about video games. I could teach you how to play, if you want," says Charlie.

Castiel furrows his brow. "Is _play_ the same euphamism as _game_? Because then, no. I don't like violence."

"They don't have to be violent," says Charlie, although she sounds a little bit doubtful. "Mario Kart isn't violent. We could play that. It's a game where you drive cars."

"I don't understand," says Castiel. "If the objective of the game is to drive, why not go in a car?"

"It's _racing_ ," says Charlie. "And we can't drive yet, so it's something we can't do in real life. How old are you?"

"Fourteen," says Castiel. "I'll be fifteen next month."

"Suffering Sappho!" squeals Charlie. "I turn fifteen next month, too!"

"Suffering Sappho? What does an ancient Greek poet have to do with anything?" asks Castiel. He's not exactly up-to-date on slang, but he's pretty sure he's never heard anyone say _suffering Sappho_ before.

"It's Wonder Woman's catchphrase," explains Charlie. "When something surpises her, she'll be all, _suffering Sappho_ , bitches! And it's actually such a good catch phrase for her because Wonder Woman is totes bisexual."

"And Sappho is known for her female lovers," says Castiel.

"You bet your butt she is!" Charlie blows strands of hair out of her face. "She's the coolest."

The first bell rings, and the class fills almost immediately. Mrs. Penola, the English teacher, often sends children to the office for first offences. Castiel can't really blame her. Unless tachers assert themselves, the children can be hell-spawn.

Today, though, Mrs. Penola doesn't show up. After about fifteen minutes, the students enact a mass exodus and stream from the room, battered copies of _A Separate Peace_ stuck underneath their arms.

"Are you coming?" asks Charlie as she gathers up her stuff.

"Yes," says Castiel, "I'm just going to get a spare notebook." Mrs. Penola keeps them in the supply closet for anyone who needs them. The lock on the closet door is broken and has been for most of the school year, so it isn't a surprise when it swings outward easily. It takes a moment for Castiel's eyes to adjust to the inside of closet, but when they do, he blanches.

"Um, Charlie?" he asks. His voice is trembling. It's funny, really, that this should startle him so much. It's just that, when he feeds, he doesn't leave a body. He's never seen human remains before.

"What is it?" Charlie comes up behind him and flicks on the closet's light. "Suffering Sappho," she whispers.

The woman inside the closet has been gutted, and her intestines trail out of her in wormy spirals. Her glasses are smashed into her face, and her eyes are filled with blood. She smells sharp and cloying and metallic, and all Castiel can think of is the fact that this is the outfit she was wearing yesterday, that yesterday she dressed herself and now she can never dress herself again.

"James, James," chants Charlie, pulling on his arm. "James, we have to get out of here, we have to get someone."

Castiel advances on Mrs. Penola's body and kneels by her head. There are runes carved into her forhead. Castiel uses the hem of his shirt to rub the blood off her face. The runes are Enochian, he realizes. One word.

 _Run._

Dean Winchester is just a little bit sick of moving. "Back in freaking black," he mutters, shoving his suitcase into the back of the Impala. He loves the Impala, he does, but he was _finally_ getting somewhere with Lauren. But there's a job in Newdale, and a job's a job.

Really, Dean's mostly pissed that his dad won't let him split, go handle a werewolf case in Louisiana. He wouldn't mind moving he were going to _do_ something, but this is probably gonna be a salt'n'burn, and Dean doesn't want to have to enroll in a new school and, shit, meet new people, and this situation just blows.

"Dean?" pipes Sammy. "You okay?"

Dean wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans and leans down so he's face-to-face with his little brother. Sam's a good kid, a sixth-grader who knows too much about the dark. He's smart, too. Already on a twelfth-grade reading level.

"Yeah, I'm good, Sammy," says Dean, and he slams shut the Impala trunk. "You excited, little buddy?"

"I'm not a _litle buddy_ ," grumps Sam.

"Whatever." Dean yanks open Baby's back seat and gestures. "You gonna get in, bitch?"

"Jerk." But Sammy does get in, clutching his backpack. When Dean's sure Sammy's buckled himself, he gets into the passenger seat and waits for Dad to get out of the motel with the last of their shit.

"What's the case this time?" asks Sam.

Dean shrugs. "Kind of thin. Some kids found their teacher in her supply closet, guts everywhere. There were some sigils in her forehead. Police think it's Enochian."

"The language of the angels?" asks Sam. "Angels aren't real."

"That's why it's thin. Don't know if any real supernatural assholes would use a fake language. Could just be a crazy son-of-a-bitch who gets his rocks off ganking little old English teachers. There's also a missing kid, though. Fun little bonus."

"Are we going to the English teacher's school?" asks Sam.

"Why?" demands Dean. "You scared?"

"No," mutters Sam. "I'm just curious."

"Well, probably," says Dean. "Don't know what other school we'd go to."

"I hope I make friends," says Sam, softly.

"Hey, you're the best," says Dean sternly. "You'll have friends up the wazoo. Don't you worry."

The motel door slams shut, and John lumbers up to the car with their stuff. The trunk is full, so he loads it into the back before swinging into driver's seat. "You boys ready?" he grunts.

"Sure are," says Dean. The thumping of AC/DC blasts through the car, and Dean rests his head against the car window, settling in for the ride.


End file.
